


Prelude

by Sealgirl



Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 02:00:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2795615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sealgirl/pseuds/Sealgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The very start of a case can often be the most mysterious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prelude

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Plaid_Slytherin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Plaid_Slytherin/gifts).



One morning in early August, I was reading the paper on the settee in Poirot’s study when Miss Lemon came through. Poirot was at his desk as usual, patiently trimming his moustache.

‘The post, Monsieur Poirot, and your morning tisane.’

As Poirot took the post from her silver tray, I saw him glance up to the clock. It was nine o’clock precisely. He gave Miss Lemon a warm smile.

‘ _Merci_ , Miss Lemon.’

She waited for a moment as Poirot glanced briefly at the letters before returning to the office.

It had been a very quiet and peaceful summer. All of London and the South had been baking in the uncommonly warm weather. For the most part, I had spent the days sheltering from the heat at Poirot's flat, with the windows open as wide as they could go. I had even stayed away from the cricket grounds and listened to the radio commentary from the BBC instead (although Poirot had not enjoyed the commentary) rather than venturing out in the thick, stifling heat.

Poirot, on the other hand, had put a brave face on it and appeared to be unconcerned about the heat. He tolerated my need for open windows with his usual grace. But I knew that he disliked the way the light winds from outside would create disorder on his desk, and the increased level of noise from the street below had become something of a problem.

There had been few distractions from the uncomfortable weather during those summer months. Chief Inspector Japp had dropped by with cases every so often, and Poirot had dutifully gone along and investigated, but there was nothing that captured his interest and each time he had returned a little bit more despondent.

‘ _Mon ami_ , Hastings,’ he would say with a small sigh. ‘The little grey cells are in need of the exercise.’ And I would wonder when the next case that interested him would appear.

'Ah!'

The expression of surprise caught my attention at once, interrupting my train of thought. I looked up to see Poirot frowning at the letter in front of him. He said nothing for a number of moments, intent on the letter in front of him.

' _Ah!_ ' he said again. Fully intrigued at what could have caused such a reaction, I folded the paper up and rose from the settee. The exclamation had been loud enough for Miss Lemon to hear and she appeared at the door.

‘What is it, Poirot?’ I asked.

My friend was holding the letter, a look of excitement on his face. He didn’t answer, but he wagged a finger at me instead. I waited, as did Miss Lemon, watching his expression slowly change from excitement to confusion as he read.

After he had finished, he placed the letter neatly on the desk, sat back in his chair gazing out of the window with his fingers steepled in front of him. I waited. He still said nothing.

I cleared my throat, but he still said nothing. Finally, I could stand it no longer.

‘Poirot, are you going to tell me what was in that letter or not?’ I asked crossly.

‘Ah! _Pardonez moi_ , Hastings,’ he said, looking at me for the first time. ‘This letter is most interesting.’

‘What does it say?’

‘It is word from an old friend, and he had asked me to visit.’

‘A case?’ I asked hopefully.

‘Yes, Hastings,’ replied Poirot with a nod. ‘My friend, he has called me on a professional matter. It is very important, I believe.’

‘Good show!’ I said. ‘About time something came up.’

Poirot nodded, but with less enthusiasm than I had expected. He had waited all summer for something to whet his appetite.

‘We are to go to Kent,’ he said. ‘A place called North Greythorpe Hall.’

‘Never heard of it,’ I remarked with a shrug.

‘That is not a surprise, it is not a well known place.’

‘And who are we going to see?’

Poirot hesitated and for the first time in the conversation I sensed a feeling of anxiety from my friend.

‘Who _is_ it, Poirot?’

‘Monsieur Paul Parker.’

‘Paul Parker? ' The name was familiar, but for a few moments I couldn't place it. Then I remembered something I had read in the papers a few days before. I frowned. 'Paul Parker, as in Paul Parker, the actor? But I thought he was dead!’

Poirot nodded, a dark and sombre look on his face.

‘Yes, Hastings. He is.’

Surprised, I made no reply, although I was curious to know how Poirot had come to know the man. He had never mentioned him, not even when Parker had had his name in lights at the West End. It wasn't like Poirot not to say something.

Poirot handed the letter to Miss Lemon, his face still sombre. ‘Miss, Lemon, please be good enough to telephone this number and inform them that Captain Hastings and I will arrive at Greythorpe village tomorrow at ten in the morning.’

‘Yes, Monsieur Poirot,’ she replied, and returned to her office.

I waited for him to say more, but all he did was carefully start to open the rest of the day’s mail and sip his tisane. I frowned.

‘Well, why _are_ we going there?’ I asked eventually. ‘What’s all this about?’

Poirot merely shook his head.

‘Ah, no, _mon ami_ ,’ he replied. ‘We must not discuss this now. I must think. Tomorrow, when we leave, I shall answer that question.’ he gave a slight sigh. 'I think, this will be the case most intriguing, Hastings.'

He can be so infuriating sometimes, but I was damned if I was going to give him the satisfaction of knowing how intrigued I was by his behaviour.

‘Fine,’ I said shortly, sitting back down on the settee and flicking the paper back up. ‘Tomorrow then.’

I had hoped he would see my annoyance, but when I next looked up, Poirot was staring out of the window, a pensive, upset expression on his face. My irritation faded. Whatever this was, it had certainly captured his attention, for good or for bad.

So I contented myself with waiting.

 


End file.
